Freak
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: Something wasn't taken something was gained.


**Freak**

by

Stealth Dragon

Rating – T for mentions of torture, just to play it safe. Nothing explicit.

Disclaimer – Stargate Atlantis and its characters do not belong to me. They come out to play of their own free will. I swear I'm not bribing them with turkey sandwiches and ZPMs (bats eyes innocently).

Synopsis – Something wasn't taken; something was gained.

A/N: What this story involves has been done before, but the idea has been bopping around my brain for a while, and I finally came up with a plot I liked. It also ended up being longer than I intended, but for good reason as a story like this can't really be rushed.

SGA

"Oh no..."

"By the Ancestors..."

"What the hell...?

John wanted to laugh, cry, shout 'surprise' and whimper afterwards. He barely had enough energy to open his eyes and had to settle for a rapid heartbeat as his reaction toward the painfully familiar voices. Fingers pressed into his neck and he flinched, wondering why the hell they were checking his pulse with his eye-lids fluttering for all the world to know he was alive.

Because it was dark. He'd totally forgotten about that. To further elucidate that he was indeed alive, he swallowed, adding the motion of his throat to the pulse. He heard a heavy sigh and felt warm breath tumble over his face.

"He's alive." By the cracked whine in the voice, John easily assumed it to be Rodney speaking. "Call Beckett."

"The place isn't secure..." Ronon, by the deep timbre.

"It's secure enough so call Beckett so he can get his ass down here, now!" A hand gripped John's shoulder lightly. "Hold on, we're going to get you out of here, take you home."

Home. John wanted to laugh and sob again. He scrounged energy enough to shift when his side started to ache. The weight of unnatural appendages pulled at his back, above the shoulder blades and shoulders. He shuddered and stilled until the sensation passed.

"Ah crap, what did they do to you, what the hell did they do?"

_What does it look like?_ But all John could manage was a pinched croak.

Another hand, small, soft and warm, pressed against his cheek. "We are here, John. We are here for you."

Voices chattered at once, rising in volume as they closed in. Lights flared on like a burning corona and, suddenly, John had all the energy he needed and then some to shrink away while crying out when the corona stabbed his eyes.

"Turn that bloody light off!"

Someone complied and sweet darkness brought John relief. The hands on his face and shoulders lifted away, leaving cold spots where they had occupied. Another hand took the place of the one that had been on his shoulder. It shifted to his neck for another pulse-check, then his forehead. It left to be replaced by something round and cool pushing into his chest.

John's eyes finally adjusted enough to see the lumpy outline that was Carson highlighted by the weaker illumination of flashlights.

"Bring me a gurney," Carson said. "We need to get him out of here."

Something was placed over his eyes, something soft – a cloth, maybe a wad of gauze – and taped into place. He heard the clatter of a gurney being wheeled into the cramped space of the cell. He felt hands all over him; his arms, legs, upper body, hip, and the appendages of flesh and bone pulling at his back. The support wasn't enough for the appendages not to tug on mutilated flesh, muscle and bone. Pain ripped through his back, shoulders, and across in chest like a cresting wave until he couldn't help crying out in agony.

"Would you be bloody careful!" Carson barked, angry and scared.

Sheppard was set on the softer surface of the gurney with the hands moving to arrange his decrepit limbs into a more comfortable configuration. The appendages were secured against his back by loose gauze strips tied around his body, the shift was cut away, being useless anyways, nothing more than a thin white poncho that had been pulled over his head. The doctors hadn't wanted to get creative in making him more proper clothes and yet still felt it necessary to give him some kind of covering for his upper body. Pants, of course, hadn't been a problem. Pants were universal, because no one wanted to see what was "down there."

The gurney squeaked when it was wheeled from the cell into the corridor. John knew it was the corridor by the simple fact that he could breathe easier and that the air no longer smelled of urine and stale sweat. He was momentarily thrown by the relative silence. Either the other freaks were dead or had been released. John found the quiet nauseating, unnatural. He wanted to stay positive and think his fellow mutations had been set free, but the silence was too much like what one might hear in a graveyard at night.

John shivered, part out of cold and part for other reasons. This didn't go unnoticed when a blanket was draped over him.

"Is he going to be all right?" Rodney.

"Too soon to tell." Carson. "At least he's alive. That's always a good start."

Silence, then, "How is it even possible? I mean, how were they able to...? How could they...?"

"Aye, I know."

"Is it hurting him? It is hurting him. It looks like it hurts."

"The incision sites looked inflamed. But, aye, that would just be the half of it. What they had to do...? I don't even know what they had to do, I've never seen anything like it."

The muscles of the appendages twitched as though protesting their confinement. John swallowed several times, fighting back the rising bile. He listened into the silence at the hushed, awed, horrified whispers.

"Wings... They gave freakin' him wings."

-----------------------------

The infirmary lights were tolerable at their dusky level, but John wanted the darkness back. The darkness kept him from seeing the eyes that stared at him, the expressions of horror people tried too hard to hide. The blanket wasn't enough, he needed to just vanish. He needed to move so he could stand, march over to the light board, and rip down the hard copies of his scans throwing the appendages anchored to his back in his face. Side-views only since laying on his back hurt too damn much. One would think the weight of wings would only bug the shoulders, but he had aches extending down his back and around his ribs to his chest. Even with support, every time he was moved, he felt them, tugging and shifting. He'd finally vomited a thin stream of bile when he was transferred onto the scanning bed.

But, trying to scrounge for the positive, he no longer hurt as much. Since the drugs the scientists had pumped into him had metabolized a long time ago, Carson had been able to give him the good stuff. After the scans, blood-letting, and testing of his cognitive functions and reflexes, he'd been cleaned up, which had been a nice little sliver of hell. All those hands on him, stripping him, manipulating his languid arms and legs, eyes raking over his exposed body. They'd even cleaned the appendages, driving the nail of their existence deeper into John's skull. He never said a word, didn't allow himself the luxury of a whimper, and didn't struggle (not that he could have). He was going to fight for every crumb of dignity there was to find.

Plus... he didn't want them getting mad at him. Funny how a part of him knew they wouldn't, yet another part didn't believe it.

So now he was clean, dressed in a gown tied except at the appendages, with a feeding tube up his nose, an I.V. in his hand, and other tubes in uncomfortable places. The appendages were pressed to his back by more gauze strips to keep them from moving.

"How is he, Carson?" Elizabeth.

John heard Carson let out a sharp breath. "I don't rightly know, to tell you the truth. What I do know is what's obvious. He's severely malnourished. His body's cannibalized itself to the point that he can't even move, which seems bloody odd since those daft buggers claimed him to be their prized specimen in that data base of theirs."

Those 'daft buggers' hadn't starved him on purpose, although it wouldn't have killed them to give him something beyond nutrient fortified gruel that tasted like cardboard. The _experiment_ and all it entailed had made keeping food down next to impossible, and the Frankenstein posse hadn't had the patience to fix it.

"They didn't handle him too kindly. I've founds some severe bruising on his arms and legs, about his back and chest, but especially his arms. The bastards apparently had no bloody clue how to insert a needle. Lad's got more track marks than a heroine addict."

Again, lack of patience was at fault. John was a stubborn SOB, always would be a stubborn SOB, but the scientists couldn't get that through their heads. So they punished him as any master would a pet. They tossed him around, slapped him, kicked him, all as a warning. When he still wouldn't cooperate they resorted to the needles. The green liquid was bad. The blue good. The green liquid set John's veins on fire and doused his nerve-endings with acid. He screamed until his voice cracked and lungs collapsed. Only when he promised to be a good little freak did they give him the soothing blue that made his nerves sigh, his heart pound, and an involuntary smile split his face. Oh, and one mustn't forget all the pretty colors that followed, undulating in auras of prismatic delight around his tormentors. John had always wondered what colors had danced around himself.

They'd stopped punishing him when they attached the appendages.

"Thankfully, whatever they pumped into him is long gone. However, that also means they weren't giving him any pain medication or antibiotics, so we've got an infection to worry about. It's only now starting to set in."

The scientists had thought letting John writhe in agony would help in the plot to make him a docile and obedient mutation.

Carson took a deep breath. He'd done enough pussyfooting around and was about to launch into the heart of the matter. "I want to wait until he's stronger to remove the... um... _additions_. Gaw, Elizabeth, it blows me bloody mind how they managed it. I don't know whether to be bloody sick or jealous. They didn't just slap a pair of wings onto him. According to the scans and blood-tests, they altered his DNA just enough to get the body to reform and grow the necessary bone structure and muscle to accommodate the wings – which had to bloody hurt."

It probably would have hurt if the scientists hadn't gone all momentarily concerned and doped their experiment to the gills in order to ensure he didn't die from shock. But there had been moments; agonizing, trying-to-rip-his-eyeballs-out-of-the-sockets-and-the-wings-from-his-back moments that had him screaming until he was mute. So, yeah, it had hurt a lot when it did hurt.

"So the... _wings_," Elizabeth said, saying the word as though she'd never heard it before, so wanting to come up with something better. "They're a part of him now?"

"Aye, like having an extra pair of arms."

An extra pair of arms with long fingers and webbing in between. They weren't even flesh-colored, more a dark blue verging on black and copper. John could feel them flinch, the blood flowing through the tiny veins, the muscles aching from being forcibly immobilized. John squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel every damn inch of them, including the small tendril of air snaking through the blanket, brushing against the membrane, leaking cold into the rest of his wasted body.

"I don't want to say it's bloody amazing, but it is. It's also sick, like a bloody bad joke."

"You think they knew he was a pilot?"

John heard the rustle of cloth associated with a shrug.

"We saw all kinds of experiments in that place. John wasn't the only one with wings, just the only one not irrevocably altered."

John wondered if the harpies had taken off the moment they were released. He had called them harpies because, well, they were. Human heads on bird bodies, their DNA more screwed up than John's had been during his bug mutation. They'd been a nice bunch of creatures, even after they'd descended into madness. The insanity just made them harder to talk to, what with them all trying to talk at once. They were probably building nests on the facility even now. Or, better yet, hunting down the remaining scientists and gouging their eyes out.

"Can I see him?" Elizabeth asked.

"Aye, if he's awake."

John heard them approach. He rolled his eyes up when Elizabeth stepped within his line of sight, smiling down at him.

"Hey there," she said in genuine pleasure that he was awake.

Carson stepped up beside her to join in on all the grinning. "How're you feeling, Colonel? Any pain? Just nod your head yes or no."

John shook his head no. He wanted to verbally respond, he really did, but his throat felt like someone had roughed it up with sandpaper. Carson had to be precognitive. He produced an ice-chip from the bowl by the bed and slipped it into John's mouth. The arctic water doused most of the flames baking his esophagus.

"He'll be a little quiet for a time." Carson didn't say why and didn't need to. People don't come back from Unnecessary Surgery Land maintaining a perfect singing voice.

Elizabeth reached out and took John's bony hand into hers, squeezing, the gesture of one friend comforting another that John never got tired of. It beat, by far, the distant and unreadable "how're you doing, son" that was the usual emotional spiel from commanding officers who preferred to remain detached. Elizabeth was the commanding officer who would cry with John if he needed to cry. The kind of commander he'd only heard about but never got because no one wanted a potential screw-up.

John stared at his hand that was knobby and shriveled, and had to fight not to pull it back.

"Sorry it took us so long to find you," Elizabeth said. She looked like she was the one who needed someone to cry with. "The facility was shielded and we couldn't get in until Rodney found the generator powering the thing. Once that was down, we were able to move in."

John had been taken in the night on another world, because someone had scanned him and thought having an Ancient, even a half one, might be useful. He would say the rest was history but he didn't understand it all that much. It wasn't as though his gene had made a difference; he'd heard the scientists confess it. It was as though the scientists were screwing with his body out of habit, as though it were a hobby. "Let's toss stuff into a metaphorical blender and see what we get". There had been honest to goodness creatures right out of a fairytale freak show: A thing with two heads like a chimera, the harpy gang, a manticore, a winged cow-thing that John supposed could be called a Pegasus. Then himself, a modern day Icarus, angel or demon he couldn't decide. He supposed demon since no way would an angel be caught dead with the kind of wings he had.

John hadn't even learned any of the scientists' names or seen their faces always hidden behind surgical masks and goggles. They had never talked to him except to make demands. They had called him 'it', instead of 'him'. The only reason John had had clothes was because he'd been getting sick from being cold all the time and they couldn't have their prized 'it' dying on them. He knew he had been the favorite since the harpy gang had complained that he got taken out of the cell more.

"We tried to get there sooner," Elizabeth said. "We really did."

John grimaced, forcing everything he had into his hand to squeeze hers back, to let her know it was okay and that he didn't blame them. They'd come for him, he was free, and that was all that mattered. His hand shook when he grasped.

Carson put a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "I need to check his back, lass. I think he'd prefer it if it were done in private."

Elizabeth nodded. She tucked John's hand back under the covers, clasped his arm, then left still wearing guilt like a thin veil. Carson pulled the curtains, closing them off from prying eyes. He then tossed aside the blankets and tugged at the ties of the gown until the halves parted. John shivered from the temperature change, then from Carson prodding and pulling at the scabbed skin around the joints of the appendages.

"Suture sites are still inflamed," he said. It wasn't a long check, just felt that way. Carson finished up with a listen to heart and lungs, then closed the gown and covered John back up. "Just be patient, lad. As soon as you're fit, we'll have these things removed. I don't want to risk it until then and until we reverse the alterations to your DNA. I can't say how long it'll be, but be assured it'll happen as soon as possible."

Soon better have included before John was back on his feet. Like hell he was walking around with a pair of wings for everyone to gawk at. Completely useless wings tacked onto him for decorative purposes only. He'd promised the scientists that as soon as he had the strength, he was flying out of that joint. The response had been raucous laughter, a slap on the head, and a scathing, "they will not work, you stupid man." Apparently, they just wanted to see if grafting body-parts of two totally different species to create a new species was possible. And who gave a crap if 'it' couldn't fly, since not everything with wings could.

It was freakishly, sickeningly ironic – the flyboy with wings can't fly. John choked on a laugh, awarding him another ice chip from a throughly concerned Carson.

"Up for more visitors, lad?" Beckett asked.

John lifted a bony shoulder. He was tired, but he knew the routine: people were worried and watching him breathe wasn't enough. They needed to know he was still at home upstairs. He kind of wished he wasn't, because every twitch and shudder from the appendages kept weirding him out.

Carson pulled back the curtains and stepped away. Minutes later, just as John was about to nod off against his will, his team clattered in gathering around his bed.

Teyla smiled at him in untainted happiness to see him awake. Rodney, always looking at the bigger picture, had a smile that was twitchy and slightly strained. Ronon, as usual, was at first unreadable until John realized the man wasn't slouching like he normally would be. He was ramrod straight, as though someone had told him there was a wraith in the city but he couldn't go hunt it yet.

Teyla took John's hand as Elizabeth had done. "Hello, John."

John gave her a pale smile and blinked heavily.

"Checking out on us already?" Rodney asked. He stuck his hands into his pockets and began rocking heel to toe. John waited for Rodney to add to the remark, so it was a bit of a shock when he didn't. The silence that followed was heavy and getting heavier, uncomfortable. It was giving John too much space to observe and think. His team was uneasy and John had two pretty good reasons why. One: where as Elizabeth's guilt had been gauzy, Rodney's was a bulky mask twice the size of his head, making his smile look painful to maintain. Two: Ronon's eyes kept flicking to and from the misshapen lump beneath the covers at John's back.

John curled and hunkered deeper into the blankets. He wasn't normally a chatty guy, liked silence just as much as noise, but he'd never wanted to speak so badly in his life as he did right then; break the silence and pretend everything was hunky-dory. He wanted some damn normalcy, even if it was just delusional. Was that so much to ask? He thought his team, above all, would get that. Although he did have to award them points for trying, Teyla especially.

_Damn it, here comes the self pity. _He just needed the silence to end. John opened his mouth, croaked, then convulsed in an onslaught of coughing.

"All right, then," Carson said, bustling in to save the day, "everyone out. You've seen the lad, but he needs to rest." Carson fitted a nasal cannula over John's face, under his nose, then slipped him another ice chip.

"We will see you later, John," Teyla said, setting his hand down.

_With conversation, I hope._ In truth, he didn't want them to go. When Carson headed off to get some medicine or device, John tried to move, to get his hand to snake out and grip Carson's coat. But he didn't have the strength, so now it was just him and the appendages.

It probably wasn't so bad he didn't have any energy left or else he would have ripped them off his back himself. He felt an itch on the clawed thumb and refused to scratch it.

SGA

Elizabeth walked into the infirmary, making her way to John's bed that had been moved to a more private part of the infirmary, when she noticed two things that stopped her in her tracks. John was asleep, on his side, with an oxygen mask practically swallowing his thin face. Kate was standing within the threshold, arms folded and leaning against the door jam. Kate's presence wasn't a surprise, but the oxygen mask certainly was.

"What happened?" she asked.

Kate glanced over her shoulder. "Infection. According to Carson, whatever was done to John had compromised his immune system enough to make infection inevitable. It's spread to his lungs. However, also according to Carson, it's not as bad as it looks since he was able to treat it in time. Col. Sheppard as a mild case of pneumonia."

Elizabeth frowned, folding her own arms. "Just what he needs. More complications." Sheppard looked like the blankets alone could have crushed him. They were configured in a way so that they were covering his waist and the wings, but not his naked upper body that was glossy with sweat. His rapid, shallow breaths kept his protruding ribs in constant motion, and his arms were akimbo, one hand dangling limply over the side of the bed. There were wires and tubes running from him and, with a sickening twist in her gut, Elizabeth realized this was what John had probably looked like when he was being experimented on. It nearly had her hightailing it out of the room right then and there. Instead, she told herself to suck it up.

"Have you talked to him yet?" Elizabeth asked. She felt a twinge of jealousy and irritation toward Kate's supposed stoicism. But Kate was a professional. Plus she had had more time to digest any shock or disgust felt, where as Elizabeth had just arrived.

"Not yet. I thought I'd observe first while Sheppard's voice is still under."

"Any verdicts on what to expect?"

Kate shifted slightly. "The usual post traumatic stress and reactions commonly seen in those victims of some form of abuse. He's shown involuntary reactions toward sudden hand motions and touch, and his heart rate increases whenever Carson comes near him with a syringe."

Elizabeth nodded, then furrowed her brow. "What about the... uh... the _additions_?"

"The wings? So far he hasn't really acknowledged them. If anything, he's probably trying to pretend they don't exist, which means he isn't going to be particularly social until they're finally removed. You don't have to be a professional to know the wings are a humiliation for him. A reminder of what was done to him. Carson told me John will sometimes start trembling whenever the sutures around the wing joints have to be checked. So we can add feelings of being violated to the ever growing list."

"So he probably isn't going to be smiling any time soon until those wings are removed," Elizabeth said.

Kate pursed her lips. "Probably not even then. He wasn't tortured for information or to save a life. He was mutilated for the sake of mutilation, treated as less than human, and left to die. To be honest, I don't think removing the wings will make much of a difference."

SGA

John graduated from the feeding tube to semi-normal food after he overcame his persistent bout of pneumonia. Soup, for the most part, and oatmeal or cream of wheat just for variety. He had strength enough to lift the spoon to his mouth, which was fine and dandy when it was oatmeal or cream of wheat. Soup he was forced to bend in close to the bowl and suffer gravity pulling on the appendages. It didn't hurt, it was just... _weird_. And the more it happened, the less John could take it until he tried not to move at all. Thankfully, laying against the upturned head of the bed was no longer a problem with the wings now strapped to his sides rather than his back.

The slight pull was nothing compared to having the appendages manipulated by one of Carson's nurses. To prevent muscle atrophy and pain during his illness, the nurses had had to manipulate his arms and legs for him, wings included. He'd lodged a formal complaint that attention to the wings wasn't necessary, to which Carson countered that if John wanted to be relatively pain free, then the wings had to be included.

It hadn't been so bad when John had been too doped up to notice. Afterwards, he came to fully realize just how anti-touch he'd become, but was still too weak and too wary to do anything about it except flinch and swear a lot. And, crap, all the freakin' flinching. Every flash of a gloved hand out of the corner of his eye, every time a needle full of meds floated toward him en route to the I.V., his skeleton made an effort to jump out of his skin. And if he were truly honest with himself, the lack of struggling wasn't _entirely_ due to weakness. He was afraid; afraid of punishment for not being cooperative.

John had been tortured before, nearly broken before, but this was different. There had been no goal, no fight, no game of 'see who would give out first'. Physical pain, even psychological pain, had always been inflicted for two reasons: to get him to talk or for the sake of revenge. All he needed to do was keep his mouth shut, or keep on smiling; usually both.

What the scientists had wanted was for him not to squirm so much. They'd been quite creative about getting what they wanted. John had had no idea how to counter them except to kill himself and he'd been quite ready to at one point, but too drugged to even bang his head against the wall. They'd had him trapped in every sense and that had freaked him out more than the wings.

It was still knocking him for a loop, because they had _won_, even when the calvary had come and chased them off like naughty mice. They had done what they intended. They had won.

It pissed John off, sickened him, scared him. He felt both a failure and like he'd been duped. It made him uncertain what to do with himself, how he needed to act, whether to be depressed, angry, or ashamed. It made him despise company when it was there, then crave it when it was gone.

John's only certainty was that he was screwed up and had no idea what to do about it. So he opted for being scared.

------------------------------

John was bundled like a caterpillar in a cocoon as he was slowly wheeled from the infirmary to the balcony for some fresh air and a change of scenery. Ronon was doing the pushing, with Teyla walking on one side and Rodney the other, making small talk. His team was trying, they really were, to go with the flow that was his unspoken desire for normalcy. He was grateful for the attempt, but also irritated by how forced it sometimes seemed. Rodney would go on and on about mundane matters and Teyla and Ronon would let him. Back in the good old days, Ronon would have told Rodney to shut up by now. John had done as much three days ago when his team had come to the infirmary for lunch. Instead of a scathing comeback, Rodney had fallen silent, and that silence reigned until lunch was over.

The door to the balcony slid open to a warm ocean breeze and the cusp of sunset. Lawn chairs were already set up and John's wheelchair locked in place between them. The team sat surrounded by silence, but an amiable silence that came before conversation as they enjoyed the scene of the sinking sun tossing its image like a path across the choppy water.

"Any good missions?" John asked when he couldn't take the quiet anymore.

"SG-4 were run off the planet," Rodney said, "when it turned out the bugs they were swatting were the locals' gods."

"Ronon and I attended the Malayans harvest festival," Teyla said. "It was a most pleasant event."

"Yeah, after the three-hour speech and face-painting," Ronon muttered. Teyla shot him a narrow-eyed look. The Satedan's need to go off world during down time seemed to always end up getting him into hot water with the Athosian. John smiled tentatively.

"SG-6's trip to those ruins wasn't worth the price paid for," Rodney said next.

"A crate of power bars," Ronon explained.

Rodney glowered. "_Chocolate_ power bars. They refused to take the damn lemon ones."

"Other than that," Ronon said. "Just a lot of trading."

"Elizabeth has been keeping everyone on their toes ever since..." Rodney cleared his throat and twirled his hand, "...you know..."

"You were taken," Ronon finished.

Rodney dropped his hand into his lap. "Yeah."

John glanced over at the physicist and realized that Rodney was looking everywhere but at him. Quiet settled back over them like a fog. John wracked his brain for another conversation starter. The more he couldn't come up with anything, the more he longed to return to the infirmary. His wings twitched, and he shuddered, which didn't go unnoticed by Teyla. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Colonel?"

"I'm all right," John blurted.

Quiet again. John focused on the sound of the waves and the scent of brine on the wind, but the stupid wings kept twitching, growing numb from being pressed tight against his sides. He had no choice but to shift them enough to get the circulation going, causing the blankets to bulge and rustle.

"So, huh," Rodney began, "can you fly with those things?"

John stilled, stiffening. Rodney was staring at him. Both Teyla and Ronon shot Rodney a look that could have wilted forests.

"Rodney!"

"McKay!"

Rodney lifted both hands. "Sorry, sorry! I just... Sorry. I'm a scientist, I'm naturally curious, all right? I'm not making fun or anything, I swear. I mean, seriously, it's an innocent question, right?"

In all honesty, it was, but that didn't stop John's lips from forming a bitter smile. "I was told I couldn't."

"By who, those quacks? They're not even real scientists. Even the Ancients were better at playing god than they were. I mean, did they even let you try, just to see if it was possible?"

John squirmed deeper into the blankets. "I was too weak to try."

Rodney tossed his hands up. "Why am I not surprised? I know I'm going to regret saying this, but the Frankensteins did have enough sense that their creations did work. Those bird-people flew. I don't see why you can't."

John opened his mouth for a retort that wasn't there. The scientists had said he couldn't fly and yet had never given him an explanation as to why. He'd taken their word for it because they were the scientists, and him the subject, and scientists normally knew what they were talking about. Yet for all he knew they could have just been saying that to keep him from taking off.

John looked over at Rodney uncertainly. "Really?"

Rodney shrugged, suddenly uncertain himself. "Well... we could have Simmons take a look at them. He specializes in avians. Although that means, you know, he'd have to _look_ at them..."

Ronon stood suddenly from his seat. "Let's go then."

John's heart thudded. "What, now?"

Ronon unlocked the wheels then grabbed the handles. "Why not? The sooner we know, the sooner you can start doing what you need to to make the wings work."

Teyla rose just as swiftly to place a restraining hand on Ronon's arm. "_If_ the Colonel wants to. We should not force him into anything." She looked at John. He looked from her to Ronon to Rodney. They were expressionless, or at least trying to be so as not to sway him one way or the other. John had never actually pondered the possibility of flight, not since that one scientist had shot down the idea as though John were an idiot.

That scientist could have been wrong. He could have just said that to keep John from forming flight-related escape plans. And there was no harm in letting a bird expert look over the appendages and confirm what John had already been told.

He nodded, reluctantly. He wasn't sure, but he was a little curious himself.

------------------------

John didn't try to suppress a shudder as Dr. Simmons pulled, turned, spread, poked, and prodded the wings. They were in the biology lab, emptied of all personnel except Simmons by Ronon. Simmons had John in a clear section of the lab in order to have room to pull the right-side wing as far as it would go. He had Rodney measure the length with a tape-ruler. The wings were three feet longer than John's body, the width of the membrane the length of his torso. Unlike bat wings, the membrane didn't attach to his flank but was an inch away from it. The joint was as thick as his shoulder and the claw the length of his middle-finger.

"Did the alteration to his DNA make his bones hollow?" Simmons asked as he tugged on the membrane, testing its elasticity.

"No," Rodney promptly replied. "I remember Beckett talking about it with another doctor. They were surprised Sheppard still maintained normal human bone density."

Simmons hummed. "Well, Col. Sheppard's current body weight would allow for flight... Uh, no offense Colonel."

John just shrugged. Being emaciated was kind of the least of his problems right now.

"If you were to concentrate developing the muscle tone of the wings and kept your body weight well below two-hundred and I mean well below..."

Rodney folded his arms. "Yeah, I don't think that's going to be a problem for him."

John glared at him.

Simmons gnawed his bottom lip thoughtfully. "I wouldn't put out any hopes, but it is possible to achieve flight with these wings, or at least be able to glide with them."

John widened his eyes. "Really?"

Simmons tucked the wing back against John's side, letting Teyla handle tying it in place then cover him with the gown. "I honestly think it's worth a try. And it shouldn't be too hard to develop the musculature. Wings are no different than arms except for the structure. At most you could actually achieve flight. At least they'll be less of a bother to your back. The lack of pressure on your spine from their weight would, alone, be worth the attempt."

The bigger picture was possible flight. Preventing back-aches was nice and all... but flight, open and unhindered flight without being encased in bulky metal and technology. That alone sealed it for John.

"I'm willing to try," he said, and blinked in astonishment that he really was.

---------------------------

There was a stretched out moment of awkward silence as Rick the PT looked the wings over. John's team stood a little off to the side, waiting to be called in to help when or if needed. Carson was next to John, holding him up by the shoulder so he didn't have to lean into the back of the wheelchair. Beckett had been reluctant about giving his stamp of approval in getting the wings to work, but agreed since their presence wasn't exactly life threatening. He did threaten that if the wings caused any muscle or bone damage, they were coming off as soon as John was fit enough to handle the surgery.

John kept his hands clasped in his lap. Any tighter they would crush each other. He had black sweat pants on, the hospital gown covering his front, but he still felt exposed and vulnerable. He was also freezing to the point of shivering. A hand gripped the upper arm of the wing and he jumped, and would have slid from the chair if Carson hadn't been keeping hold of him.

"Sorry, Colonel," Rick said. "Okay, I'm just going to rotate the joint a little and stretch it to get an idea of the range of motion on these things, all right?"

John swallowed and nodded. Rick placed his other hand a little above the shoulder of the wing and manipulated. John winced and cringed when muscles pulled and the bones popped and ground together. Rick pulled the wing up, down, around, then moved his hands in order to spread the wing. More muscles pulled, tendons creaked, leathery skin stretched, and John's brain somersaulted when it kept trying to associate the appendages as natural arms that he tried to pull away. His body, his brain, could not compute what had not been there since the day he was born, so fell back on instinct.

The wings twitched and shuddered, then John lurched forward, jerking the wing out of Rick's grasp to drop limply at his side.

Carson rubbed John's shoulder blade one-handed. "Easy lad, easy now."

John tightened his fingers around the arms of the wheelchair until his knuckles paled. If his heart beat any harder it was going to bruise itself. "I-I don't if I can do this, guys."

Carson slid his hand back up to John's shoulder and squeezed. "It's all right, lad. You just need to give it time, get used to them."

John shook his head. "I don't know if I will. I'm human, Carson, I'm not supposed to have wings."

"So you're giving up before you even start?" Ronon argued.

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head forcefully. "No! It's just... It's weird. It's..." Someone touched the limp wing, probably Rick, and John pulled it away, cringing and snarling. "Don't touch it!"

"All right," Carson said, hands raised. "All right, let's just calm down." He lowered one hand and the other he used to cover his mouth as he studied John pensively. After a moment, he lowered that hand as well. "Okay, let's try something. Rick, help me secure the wing. Ronon, I need you to wheel the Colonel for me."

Rodney stiffened. "What, we're done already?"

John tensed as Carson and Rick tied the wing so it wouldn't drag. "Not by a long shot," the doctor said. "We're taking a little field trip."

John's back was covered by a blanket. He was taken from the gym, down the hall then onto the nearest balcony. It was noon, the sun high, the sky clear, and the air warm but not warm enough to get the chill off of Johns' skin. He resumed shivering when the blanket was removed and a tepid breeze brushed across his back.

"All right, then, colonel," Carson said, moving to John's right. "I'm just going to be spreading your wing, here, while Rick takes the other."

The gauze stripes were untied, then John's wings were slowly stretched, the length taking up most of the small balcony. John's grip on the arms of the chair increased until the tendons of his wrists corded. "What're you doing?"

"A little experiment. The DNA used to alter you enough to attach wings had had to belong to something with wings of its own. Stands to reason there might be a wee bit of a change to your brain chemistry, perhaps enough to create a bit of instinct toward wing use. Close your eyes. I know you'd rather not, but I need you to focus on the wings, how they feel, what you feel against them. If you want to find out if these things work then you have to accept that they're attached to your body. That they're yours, a part of you now."

John pulled in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. He was too wound tight to go into a trance and he hadn't been all that attentive to meditative methods back at the cloister. He did as Carson said, trusting that even under the circumstances the man knew what he was doing, and focused on the wings. His stomach immediately knotted. His mind wanted to perceive them as a kind of alien presence, like someone else's arms pushing against him rather than being attached. After a moment, John's subconscious took over, exploring the sensations out of curiosity, to come to better understand these new additions. John flexed the muscles of the wings. When they wouldn't move how he wanted, he tried to jerk them free, inciting the hands holding them in place to tighten their grip. John was hit by a surge of panic cinching his chest.

He was starting to feel restrained, trapped.

"Easy, John," Carson said. "Deep breaths, lad."

John inhaled, unsteady, then exhaled. He licked his dry lips nervously and forced the muscles of his back to relax, piece by piece, extending it into his wings until they stopped pulling. He shifted his focus to the warm wind pushing against the stiff membrane that reminded him of a parachute tugging at his shoulders after landing. He wasn't hit with any sudden desire to go diving off the balcony and ride the breezes. He _was_ struck by a memory from his childhood, when he was nine and sitting up in a tree, watching the birds and imagining what it would be like to have wings of his own. Of course, he'd always opted for feathers, and the phantom feel of wings had been more at his shoulder blades than shoulders. Despite all that, what he had imagined then was what he was feeling now: extra joints, extra limbs, and the wind pushing against them.

John swallowed. No instinct and no sudden love for these _things_ hitching a ride on his back. What there was was an increase in his curiosity, less subconscious and more conscious. It must have been because of the wind and how easily the membranes resisted it. There was a need that had nothing to do with some alien instinct to maneuver the wings so that the wind was flowing around instead of pushing against. He was a pilot. He new all about the subtle changes of air currents and wind shifts. Had he the strength, were he to go leaping off this balcony with the appendages spread, he would know exactly what he needed to do to stay airborne. It wasn't a perfect knowledge since no hand-held controls were involved, but it was there, he could very well do this.

He wanted to. It was a challenge and he liked challenges.

It still didn't mean he liked the additions.

"How're you doing, lad?" Carson asked.

John nodded. "Good."

"Good. We're going to rotate them now."

John closed his eyes and let them. It was uncomfortable, but he perked when he felt the wings lift slightly from the air coursing below and above when they were positioned just right. Excitement and fear swelled in his chest and he nearly burst out laughing that he was nervous about possibly being lifted right out of the chair, over the balcony and water, light as a leaf.

"All right then,"Carson said after a time, "I think that's enough for today. We need to start working on your arms and legs while you still have the energy."

The wings were tucked and secured against John's sides. He opened his eyes and sighed in relief.

"You need to start moving them," Rick said. "Lift, spread... I'll look into configuring some weights to attach, help build up muscle."

John just nodded numbly. He was feeling a little shell-shocked that he was, so far, actually going through with this.

------------------------------

John had to force himself to acknowledge the wings, to get his brain to move them beyond muscle twitches and startled reflexes. During PT, his body came first, his wings second. He started with his arms using one to three pound dumbells, then legs after. Ronon would hold the wings up, or Teyla, while Rick supported John as he moved about the room. Afterwards, he would sit in a chair or on the edge of the bed and work the wings as instructed. When all was said and done, John was so exhausted he'd forget the wings were even there.

John ate, slept, and increased his strength. He went from liquid foods to solids but still light weight in terms of calories: boiled chicken, toast, mashed potatoes, fruit; nothing that would be strenuous on his body. With the more filling meals came better control over his limbs and a lot less shaking. If he was starting to get a little more padding between his skin and bones, it wasn't noticeable. Carson said that all the calories were being utilized to build up muscle, and that he had a lot more muscle to build thanks to the wings.

The wings he was starting to tolerate in that he no longer flinched every time he moved them. His stomach had yet to stop twisting from the discomfort of their existence. No matter how much he lifted and spread, they still pulled like dead weights that would drag on the floor if someone didn't hold them up. Rick had glued weights onto nylon cloth that was draped like a sleeve over the arm and claw of the wing, and two weights cinched onto the tip. John felt like an idiot wearing them. But until he could hold up the appendages on his own, he wasn't allowed to walk without support or he'd go pitching backwards. He was starting to hate the things more than when they were first attached.

John was moved up to the use of the balance bars when there was strength enough in his arms to support himself. Walking first, then the wings after. They trembled as he lifted, then spread, then closed, again and again, shaking harder each time. Sweat dripped from his face and tickled down his body creating itches he didn't risk scratching. The gown was soaked to the waist and the waist-band of his pants were joining it.

"You know," John panted, "I can't stay in a gown forever. What the hell am I go to do about a shirt? The military kind of frowns on officers taking command half-naked."

"The Spartans went into battle naked," Rodney said from where he stood a little off to the side. He was back-up in case the already present four people weren't enough to catch or hold John up, or so Rodney said. His actual part to play was to bring John food and the in-between meals meal, and meals were usually after PT.

John narrowed his eyes at Rodney. "And it didn't exactly go well for them."

Rodney shrugged. "Eventually. They still kicked ass."

"On Sateda," Ronon said, "there's a level you reach in training that requires the trainee to be naked in order to come to fully realize the limits of his own body."

John rolled his eyes. "If God had intended us to be naked, He wouldn't have invented clothes, and body armor. I am not parading around Atlantis in the buff. People carry cameras, for crying out loud. And that botanist, what's her name? Angie something... Got all giggly when I changed my shirt after that flower spit on me."

Teyla rubbed his arm as she'd taken up doing whenever John became agitated. "We will figure something out."

John nodded. "Good." He lifted the wings one more time, then dropped them with a gasp. "I think that's it for me."

They helped him back to the infirmary where Rick took him into the bathroom. The shower stall was small enough for John to lean against and wash without needing someone to hold him up, which was the kind of progress that made him a littler more chipper. By the time he was finished, as usual, he was so exhausted he could barely bring the fork to his mouth, which was why his meals were always smaller after PT.

The next day was a respite day to keep things from becoming mind-numbingly repetitive. It was a day to laze about, watch movies, play games. Ronon and McKay were there, ready to take John to the distraction of the week, so all they needed was Teyla. She came ten minutes after McKay had arrived, carrying a bundle that she immediately handed over to John with a shy smile.

"It is... a little thrown together," she said, "but I think it should do to help make you more comfortable."

John unfolded the bundle to reveal a shirt. It was Athosian make, like something Ronon would wear, off-white and long-sleeved. The sides were slit up almost to the armpits with thin leather ties laced to pull them together. It was a little odd, but John had to admit he was impressed with the ingenuity of it.

"When did you make this?" he asked.

"Last night. And I finished this morning."

John couldn't get the gown off fast enough to slip the shirt over his head. Teyla helped tighten the ties closing the halves over his flanks except around the wing joints. It was loose, coming past his waist, soft, and warm.

"I like it," John said. "Thanks."

Teyla blushed, then placed her hand on his arm. "You are welcome, Colonel."

Their destinations on the off-days were either the rec-room (emptied courtesy of Ronon) or the nearest balcony, and always with a blanket covering the wings. John never wore the shirt during PT, just when heading to the gym, after showers, and during outings.

The next progression was when he no longer needed the chair except for after work-outs. He kept the wings tucked tight against his body and strapped down with a robe hiding them. His team kept him surrounded and sufficiently blocked from passer-bys craning their necks because they'd heard a rumor that Colonel Sheppard wasn't the same.

"Probably one of Beckett's nurses started the talk," Rodney said one day as they headed to the gym. "People need to learn to keep their mouths shut."

All eyes turned to Rodney. Rodney flashed them all a look of scathing indignation. "What!"

Carson said John's progress was moving along well. John would have been more enthusiastic if he didn't keep getting poked in the arm by his own ribs. He did want to pull Carson in a bear hug when the verdict finally came that Sheppard could recuperate in his own quarters. John would say that it had been so long he'd forgotten what his room looked like, except... he didn't. Back at the facility, in the cell, sometimes to get any sort of decent sleep, John would let himself slip into a little delirium and pretend that he was back in his room. He would curl up on the floor, close his eyes, and sink into mapping out his quarters until he hit the right moment where he actually believed he was there, and let it relax him enough to slip into unconsciousness. If that didn't work, then he would resort to mapping out a jumper and think of himself piloting it.

His room on Atlantis and flying; most couldn't boast having two happy places to go to.

John was finally afforded some privacy after being home for two weeks. He was torn about it, still in that between mode of loathing company yet also wanting it. After Carson prattled off a long list of instructions on what Sheppard needed to do, he and the nurse headed out, and John almost stopped him. Almost. His team would be dropping by with lunch in an hour, so he forced himself to become reacquainted with solitude.

A different kind of solitude, actually. This was his room, larger than the cell, devoid of the distant mumbling chatter of fellow freaks. So though he was split between wanting to be alone and wanting company, it wasn't so bad as before. It was something he would get used to, could get used to, eventually.

John moved to the edge of his bed, sat, and tugged the ties loose to release the wings. They didn't drop as they used to, which he supposed was something to be slightly proud of. He lifted them, spread them, stretching out the kinks.

Then he flapped since that's what wings were supposed to do, and felt his body lift a little off the bed. That brief nanosecond of weightlessness was both startling and ever so slightly exhilarating. John smiled, amused. He flapped again, pushing up a gust of short-lived wind that ruffled his hair and fluttered the ends of his shirt. It actually felt good using the newly developed muscles. He lifted the wings high, then pulled them together behind him. The muscles used extended beyond the wings to the shoulders, chest, collar bones, shoulder blades and upper ribs and spine.

John brought the wings forward to grab one and pull it around. He'd never really given them a good once over since that biologist had looked at them. They were more creepy than beautiful, but they were impressive in their size, no longer shriveled lumps of flesh dangling from his back. John ran his hands down the membrane that felt a little like velvet, covered in fine hairs that couldn't really be seen, not even up close.

The previous owners of the wings had to be mammal. Or maybe they had been grown in a tube. There had been tubes all over the lab, and massive containers; all amber with some kind of formaldehyde and stuffed with parts or entire bodies, stacked on shelves and along the walls, bubbling or still, the parts bobbing...

John blinked and pulled in a sharp, stinging breath. His grip on the wing had tightened, the skin over the bones twitching warm and alive. He was suddenly disgusted and yet couldn't let go. He chuckled softly at first, then a little more hysterical, because these _appendages_ had been just as much a victim as him and he hadn't even been floating in any liquid chemical.

Still didn't mean he liked the things. He did pity them; he pitied freakin' body parts that had initially been dead. John released the wing to lean forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

"I am _soooo_ freakin' screwed up..." He flapped the wings and snorted out a laugh. He sat up straight, pushed himself to his feet, and climbed onto the bed. Then he started jumping, tiny little hops that kept his feet on the mattress at first, moving into larger leaps with his feet leaving the mattress. The next jump he made big, tucking his legs under him and flapping the wings down. His body rose higher than that measly little leap was capable of. The shock of that sudden elevation threw John and he dropped back onto the bed, coughing out a manic laugh of gleeful astonishment, heart pounding and blood humming in his ears.

John tilted his head back to see his team standing in the doorway carrying trays of food, staring at him as though he'd sprouted two heads. He gave them a tentative wave and abashed grin. "Hey guys."

---------------------------

John developed his own exercise technique. He used the weights and lift/spread method, after which he would flap the wings faster and faster, reaching a point where his body felt weightless and his feet lifted off the floor. It was exhilarating in an unsettling way that made him giddy and nervous. It was weird, plain and simple. Humans weren't supposed to have wings and his human brain and body was constantly aware of that.

Beckett was confident that John's wings were at the point of being able to support Sheppard's weight. He was literal skin, muscle and bone - the muscles ropey and his weight still under what Beckett set at being healthy - so there wasn't all that much for the wings to hold. John opted for being vague on when the moment of truth should take place. He'd always been a strong supporter of procrastinating the things one didn't want to do as opposed to just getting them over with. But this wasn't paperwork, this was flying, and as much as he loved flying, it was still an unnatural way to go about it. He didn't trust the appendages, no matter how many inches they lifted him off the floor.

His team didn't share in his beliefs and were quite annoying in their constant, gentle prodding over when John was going to get airborne. John's answer was always a shrug and a "maybe when the wings are a little stronger."

They accosted him in his room hours before they were to join up for movie night. Rodney entered first, with Teyla and Ronon taking positions on either side of the door like sentinels. McKay grabbed the robe from off John's chair and tossed it to him. "Suit up, we have a surprise."

John had been doing his exercises. Instead of protesting as he knew he should have done, he draped the robe over his tightly tucked wings, because his mind still saw submission as a means of avoiding pain. "Surprise?"

Rodney walked closer in a stiff, intent manner that made John tense. He flinched when Rodney reached toward him. McKay withdrew his hand in minor surprise, then he softened and reach out more slowly, gently wrapping his fingers around John's wrist.

"Yes, surprise. So hurry it up while the day is young and the weather still warm."

John hated all this immediate acquiescing, so tried to placate his ego by telling himself that he was doing this because he was curious, not because he was spooked stupid.

Their destination was a pier, lowest level right smack next to and only a foot above the water. Carson was there looking uncertain and surrounded the kind of junk normally found on boat or at community pools: a life jacket, life buoy, some rope, a freakin' inflatable whale – basically anything and everything that could float plus an oxygen tank and mask. John blinked dumbly at the collection and went with the first words that popped into his head.

"What the hell?" He flinched when Rodney removed the robe.

"Moment of truth day," McKay said, folding the robe and setting it beside the pool-stuff. He gestured at the junk with a casual sweep of his hand. "Just precautions. Not really necessary if you ask me but you know how Carson gets about his 'wee little lambs'."

Beckett scowled. "Aye, and some sheep need to learn not to bleat so bloody much. They'll be a shepherd's crook in the form of an inoculation with your name on it, Rodney, you can be sure of that."

Rodney just snorted and gave a dismissive swat. "Anyways, I was going to rig some massive padding for the largest room we've got but realized no room was large enough," he beamed, "so I was struck with the brilliant epiphany of using water."

Carson sighed, picked up what looked to be a wad of bright red cloth, and tossed it to Sheppard. John unfolded the cloth: red swim trunks with a draw string.

"So you don't get water-logged," Carson said.

John looked from the trunks to Carson, bewildered and feeling a little slow on the uptake. "Um... and you're... okay with this?"

Carson shrugged, it seemed, helplessly. "If it's to be done then this is the safest way and the safest spot. The water's deep enough for a harmless plummet but too shallow for anything unsavory to swim into. Ronon'll be in the water should anything go wrong. Trust me, lad, we're well prepared. Although I'm iffy myself. It was a toss-up between you getting your neck broke or drowning, and Rodney talked me into taking drowning as the lesser evil."

John shifted his bewilderment (and slight horror) onto Rodney. McKay just shrugged. "It really is safer."

John sighed and sagged his shoulders in defeat. He wanted very strongly to decline, but couldn't figure out a way to do so that wouldn't make him look like a quitter, and he was all out of excuses.

Carson ushered him back into the privacy of the empty hall, even providing extra privacy by placing John in the corner to dress as he held up the robe like a curtain. John didn't emerge until he felt the trunks cinched tight enough not to slip over his bony hips. Stepping back outside, he felt incredibly, painfully, humiliatingly vulnerable and so damn self-conscious it was a fight to keep from curling into himself. The most he allowed was keeping his arms folded tightly across his chest and his back curved.

The warm wind pushed at his wings and John was, once again, hit by the impression that he would be lifted away and tossed around like dandelion fluff.

Ronon stripped down to his own cloth shorts and jumped into the water. Everyone offered their advice on how Sheppard should proceed. A running start, with lots of flapping, or maybe without the flapping to just launch into a glide. John nodded numbly to each suggestion and decided for a running start. He lowered his arms, spread his wings, and took off with bare-feet slapping the warm metal pier. He flapped until a tiny whirlwind surrounded him and his body felt light, feet barely touching the floor. His heart beat wild: it was happening, he was going to do this. He came to the edge and leaped in a dive. His body lifted.

Then it dropped slicing into the water. He barely arched up in time to avoid smashing his head into the bottom, and burst through the surface with a gasp. Ronon swam out to help but John waved him away. Between using his arms, legs, and the wings, he was treading water quite easily, plus was close enough to the pier to swim back on his own. The only help he needed was to get out of the water.

"Oh-kaaay," Rodney drawled, catching the towel tossed to him and patting Sheppard's wings and body relatively dry. "Nothing ever happens the first time, but it was a good try. Try standing at the edge, flapping, then pushing off."

John twisted his mouth wryly. He was starting to feel like he was trying out for the Olympics. Next, Rodney would be asking him to do a somersault with a corkscrew twist.

"Fine," John said, finally pulling away when he'd had enough. "But next time I dry myself off."

Rodney bundled the towel nervously. "Oh, yeah, right, sorry."

John stood on the edge of the pier. He crouched, started flapping, then pushed off. He felt himself rise up, then out about three feet before he dropped feet-first into the water.

"Not bad," Rodney called when John broke the surface.

They tried the same technique a second time, then third, then fourth. On the fourth, John was out five feet before he dropped. At that point he'd reached an exhaustion level that kept him from breaching the surface. He began to flail, twist, and all out panic when his lungs constricted. Ronon was their with the buoy under one arm, wrapping his other around John's chest carefully without squeezing his ribs, and hauling him up and over to the pier. It took Rodney, Carson, and Teyla to pull him out of the water.

"That was bloody amazing!" Carson said, all smiles, wrapping the robe around Sheppard's shivering body.

It was infectious. John couldn't help his own tiny smile. This was really, really starting to look more and more possible.

-----------------------

They stuck with using the ocean as a safety net from here on in. They would come out in the afternoon when the day was warmest. Ronon would play lifeguard in the water, and John would push off from the edge of the pier, fluttering like a spooked bird. Other times he would just swim in circles using the resistance of the water to exercise the wings. Each day he flew a little farther, a little higher. He was liberated from having to tie his wings down and rely on someone to help him hold them off the floor, but he kept them hidden like his life depended on it.

John measured his strength in exertion rather than body weight. There was more defined musculature rippling and flexing beneath the skin, especially his back, yet his build was still that of a scrawny teenage boy rather than an athletic, albeit wiry, grown man. His skin remained stubbornly tight around his bones for an unobstructed view of his skeletal frame hidden only by the shirt and sweat-pants. It provoked him into avoiding mirrors except for when he needed to shave. Keeping his mind on how he no longer panted like an asthmatic just from carrying something heavy helped a lot.

By the end of the next week, John was flying out eight feet before floundering in the air and dropping like a shot duck, twisting to avoid gut-shredding belly-flops. Ronon, the ever faithful life-guard, was already their to help bring him back. To aid in the motivation, Rodney started placing bets on how far John would fly before dropping. The physicist was a sneaky SOB when he wanted to be. The man who had pushed for Sheppard to use the wings was always the one to bet on the lowest possible distance, Ronon with him. Teyla and Carson took the longer distances.

It worked in a way John quickly caught onto at Rodney's and Ronon's poorly executed disappointment when they lost, and their lack of enthusiasm, and berating that John could have gone farther, when they won. Of the four, Rodney and Ronon were the two best at being smug, smoothly provoking the need to prove them wrong.

By the middle of next week, John had extended the distance to thirteen feet, away from the shallows out into deeper waters. He was already gifted with the knack of sensing the minute shifts in the wind and air currents enough to adjust and compensate to keep from being shoved down. What he could never get a handle on was turning, and that's when he would drop. So McKay forced him to watch DVD after DVD of Simmons' nature documentary collection of birds in flight. The scientist was a relentless coach. If this had been a gymnastics course and John a twelve year old girl, he probably would have been reduced to tears while kicking ass on the balance beam. As it was, he was gaining greater distances, greater heights, and even better sarcastic comebacks.

By the end of the week, John surpassed twenty-feet, was still going, and getting scared about it. He was too far out, not just from the pier but Ronon as well. He flapped and floundered, started to plummet, then flapped harder regaining altitude. The problem was, as he'd told McKay over and over, that he didn't have any tail feathers.

"So use your body, your legs," had been Rodney's reply.

John swallowed nervously. He bent at his hip, twisting his body so that he was partially on his side. He felt himself start to drop and flapped frantic and panicked to stay airborne. Somehow, maybe through the subconscious or just plain luck, John managed to turn enough so that he was kind, sort of, facing the pier. He turned himself a little more for a full-on view by jerking and flapping hard. He rose higher, stretching his wings for a steady glide, just until the water rose up to meet him, then flapped to regain lost height. By the time he was two feet from the pier, his strength gave out and he dropped.

The higher he was, the bigger the shock when hitting the tepid water. Instead of floundering in the air he began to flounder beneath the surface, fresh out of energy to claw his way back up to the top. Then he felt an arm wrap around his chest and pull him up, breaking into fresh air that he sucked in, filling his lungs to capacity. Ronon dragged him the rest of the way to the pier where Rodney, Teyla, and Carson pulled him out.

"You all right, lad!" Carson gasped.

John flopped onto his stomach, coughing, sputtering, and chuckling. He gave them a thumbs-up. "That... was... cool."

The next day, he kept the distances short and focused on perfecting his turns. The turns he eventually mastered, going from panicked Sterling to graceful eagle as the days progressed. He would mainly drop in the water when he was done, but tried to land on the peer a few times, which constituted more dropping without the water to cushion his fall. Along with better flying skills came an accumulation of bruises on his stomach, chest, knees, elbows, hands, forearms, feet, shoulders and a scrape on his right side when he lost control of his speed on entry.

Rodney tried to push for the use of roller-skates as landing wheels; John adamantly refused.

--------------------------------

John, showered and changed, flapped hard on his next jump on the bed, lifting high with his head inches from the ceiling. "So, am I ready for a balcony jump, yet?"

Rodney was pacing, looking over the chart he'd developed to keep tabs on John's progression. "Hell no."

John flapped again, tucking and throwing his body into a somersault, and flapping once to land a little more gently on the abused bed. "Why not? I told you, that dive was on purpose. You saw that back-flip I did." He was up to being able to perform tricks, now. Back-flips, somersaults, twists, and pulling out of dives at the last second.

"The winds are different that high up."

John stopped jumping and dropped to sit on the edge of his bed, tucking his wings flush against the curve of his back. "Rodney, think about who you're talking to here. I know that, and I know how to handle them. If things get too rough, I just drop lower."

"Yes, right in a tailspin you can't pull out of. Smearing you all over one of the piers and landing me in Carson's bad graces for the rest of my life."

"Dr. McKay is right," Teyla said from her seat at John's desk. "About the dangers, I mean."

"And I heard Beckett threaten McKay that you weren't supposed to go jumping off any balconies," said Ronon, "or Beckett would put McKay in a medically induced coma as punishment."

"Not that I object to a really long nap, but that's just ridiculous," Rodney said. "Let's just stick with playing it safe."

John beamed. "What if I fly to a balcony? One of the lower ones."

"We'll work up to that. For now you should probably work on your landings."

John scowled. "I'm not wearing roller-skates, Rodney."

Rodney dropped his arms to his sides and rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever, you don't have to wear the roller-skates. Although knee-pads and a helmet won't kill you. Carson, however, will kill _me_ if you end up breaking any bones. Speaking of bones, we need to put more padding on yours. Time to get some dinner."

John picked up his radio from off the bed-side table. "Know what they're having?"

"I have heard people talking of something called Salsbury steak," Teyla replied. "With mash potatoes and spice cake."

John perked. "I could go for that. And Carson's given me the go-ahead for soda, but he still wants me to drink milk."

Rodney wrinkled his brow. "For some reason that sounds contradictory to me. Anything else?"

Ronon pushed off from the wall. "Why don't you just come with us, Sheppard?"

John grimaced in sudden discomfort. "Yeah, I think I'll pass. As much as the flying thing is cool, I'm still trying to avoid the whole freak-show persona."

"No such thing," Rodney scoffed.

John gestured helplessly at the wings. "I think these beg to differ."

"Well, yes, I have to agree those are not something you see on a human body everyday," Rodney said, "but at least they work. I had a friend – well, _drunk_ friend at the time – confess to me that he was born with a tail. Kind of. More like a flab of really long skin, actually. A perfectly useless tail he had removed ten minutes after coming out screaming and wet. So I wouldn't count him. Me, on the other hand... attending university classes before I was even in highschool and yet still going to highschool to be subject to the inevitable ridicule. Can't be a bigger freak than that... unless you also have a tail, but that's beside the point. The point is there's no such thing as a freak because we're all a bunch of freaks in somebody else's eyes. I mean, consider super models. They're supposed to be idealized, physical perfection and yet they're so supposedly perfect they scare the living snot out of some people. And people were not meant to be that thin. No _way_ is that healthy. Trust me, there's always someone, somewhere out there, who thinks you're a freak because you don't fit the standards of their self-centered, perfect little universe that no one really gives a crap about. My brains are a prime example."

Teyla sat down next to John. "Many believed I was too small. When I was a child, I heard people whisper in fear that my size would affect my ability to lead them. For a time I believed what was said, until my father told me how he had been even smaller than I when he was young, and it had not made a difference when it came to how he led."

Ronon chuckled. "A group of classmates thought I was too tall and that I couldn't join the Satedan military because I would only end up tripping over my own feet when I ran."

John smirked. "This girl at my highschool who was really into Tolkein said I looked like an elf - really, really loudly out in the halls."

"Gee, I wonder why?" Rodney muttered.

John shot him a withering look, then sighed. "Yeah, well, all the geeks had a field day with it and all the jocks managed to change elf to fairy – double meaning included – and would shove pictures of naked male models into my locker. Thankfully, at the time, I had a very understanding girlfriend who gave me the idea of redistributing said pictures into the jocks' lockers. I still say it was worth the beating I got afterwards."

"You weren't a jock?" Rodney asked, incredulous.

"I was basketball. Football coach said I was too wiry to join the team."

Rodney fell silent as he digested this, then twitched from his reverie. "Anyways, as I was saying, you're unique and special and yadda yadda just like everyone else, with the added bonus that you can fly. Not that you have to come to the mess hall, if you don't want. I'll agree that people swallowing flys because they won't stop gaping can get pretty annoying. But you're no more a freak than the rest of us."

John looked from team member to team member thoughtfully, nervously, imploringly. "It's not hiding, though, right? Not going out in public?"

Rodney looked uncomfortable, while Ronon just shrugged. Teyla placed her hand on John's shoulder. "It is doing what you think is best."

John gnawed his lip and rubbed the back of his neck. "Well... I think it's the staring, mostly, that's going to be a pain." He was tired of being cooped up in his room, he had to admit, and tired of skulking about like a phantom after dark. Neither did he want shocked stares burning holes into his back. "If we could hide them..."

His team was on it, fast. They secured the wings as tight as possible to John's body, then he slipped into Ronon's long-coat. They followed the same routine of keeping him surrounded when they headed out, down the corridors to the crowded mess. They got their trays and took a seat at the only empty table at the far back. John sat with the hidden wings to the wall.

John was high-strung and on high-alert, barely tasting his steak. People were too engrossed in their food or conversation to even notice him, except, John soon realized, for a small gaggle of marines sitting at the table next to theirs. He kept seeing their faces turn in his direction, only to snap back when John looked their way. Yet what they were doing was down right surreptitious compared to the throng of scientists at the table in front about to give themselves whip-lash. They looked his way without trying to hide it, and two stood rubber-necking for a more unobstructed view. John felt himself try to shrink away.

"This isn't working, guys," he mumbled.

Rodney glanced over his shoulder at the onlookers. He shifted his gaze to Simmons sitting at another table. Apparently, Rodney had laser vision because Simmons quickly caught on that he was being watched. He looked up from his food at Rodney, then at the people gawking at John, then back at Rodney to give him a helpless shrug that exempted him from suspicion of being the one who blabbed.

"Bet it was one of Beckett's nurses again," Ronon said.

"Or someone's been spying on us during the workouts," said Rodney. "Damn it, I was sure the pier was private but I bet there's a balcony where people go to make out or something."

"Perhaps we should go," Teyla said, picking up her tray. She had yet to even stand when several from the scientists' table shuffled like sheep to the team's table. Their leader was a short, slender woman with auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail and wire-rim glasses. Rodney gave her a look meant to peel flesh from bones, but the woman was too busy being giddy and fidgety as though about to confront her all time favorite celebrity.

"Um," she began.

"What!" Rodney snapped. He was more than annoyed, he was pissed, as though he'd just been informed someone else had discovered a temples with a cache of ZPMs. This surprised John.

"I was just... We were..." the woman stammered.

"Spit it out." Rodney growled.

"We heard..."

"We don't have all day here."

"Could we...?"

It was like a game of verbal tennis. Rodney sneered with the apparent attempt to throw her off, but the woman pressed on undeterred.

"Could we see them!" she finally blurted.

John stared at her, hard. "You mean the wings?"

The woman bit her lip and nodded excitedly. John mulled over the request for a second. There was an itch to just whip the wings out and get it over with, spread them and flap them for all the world to see. The marines would probably think it was cool – a little weird that their CO had wings, but they would eventually warm up to it because these kids had seen plenty of weird in a short span. The scientists would be immediately wowed, then would come the requests to see how they worked, to watch him fly. They would harass Carson for blood-samples, X-rays, and DNA samples, and if he didn't give they would go straight to the source. Biology would be on him like jackals circling a carcass and he had enough trouble just keeping the entomology department off his back.

John shuddered. His deciding factor was a sudden onslaught of petulant, pissed, stubborn resolve making him feel like a kid being forced to share his favorite toy with the kid known to break toys. He stabbed his remaining bite of steak. "No."

The woman's face fell. "No?"

John shoved the steak into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "No." It felt indescribably liberating and just plain good to be able to say that.

"Well," the woman stammered. "Um... we don't want to do anything, just see..."

"I don't feel like getting them out."

Rodney narrowed his eyes. "They're wings and they're bat-like. Use your imagination."

"The Colonel wishes to finish his meal in peace," said Teyla, "and this is not helping."

"His wings," Ronon said, "his rules."

"And my rules are that they're off limits," said John, and he finalized his statement by standing and taking his tray to the trash, stacking it on top. His team followed.

John didn't look back. He didn't have to since he was either going to see looks of righteous indignation or slack-jawed astonishment. He didn't care about reactions or if this permanently labeled him as a condescending SOB. It was his right to say no and his right to walk out. People needed to learn when to have some damn consideration.

"So I guess this means meals in your room again," Rodney said.

John grinned. "Naw. That would be like admitting defeat."

"I was actually surprised you didn't whip those things out, although I have no idea why you would, except to show off and care people. Which, of course, they wouldn't have been. If anything, they would have been crooning like women swooning over Brad Pitt shirtless. Anyways, yeah, I'm surprised you didn't break out the wings."

John shrugged. "So am I."

When they were back in John's room, he slid out of the coat, loosened the ties, and spread the now-cramped wings in a satisfying stretch. He dropped down heavily on the edge of the bed and elongated his body by arching his back. "Well, I'm beat."

"Get some rest," Ronon said. "I'm getting you up at dawn to start running again."

John smirked. "I'll probably cheat and take off."

Ronon smirked back. "Then I'll tie a rope to your ankle and yank you back down if you try."

John just gave him a long-suffering look. His team started heading out.

"Hey, Rodney?" John said. Rodney paused and turned, letting the door slide shut behind him.

John cleared his throat, abruptly uneasy about what he was going to ask. But it had been bugging him since they'd left the mess, and would fester until he finally got it out. So procrastination was out of the question. "Uh... I was kind wondering, when you suggested I see if the wings worked... Um... Why? I mean... yeah, why?"

"What do you mean _why_?"

"Well, you said it was out of curiosity. It was, wasn't it? Just out of curiosity? Because you're a scientist and sometimes scientists go nuts with being curious..." _Am I your personal science experiment, McKay? Is that why you're documenting everything? Are you going to send your findings to some journal and hope you get a Nobel Prize out of it or something?_ The words he kept in his head and out of his mouth. He was pissed. People knew about the wings, scientists knew, and John hadn't realized how sick of scientists and science in general he was until today, so of course wanted to veer his need to vent toward the only scientist present, become suspicious of his motives for helping. But he refused to put McKay on trial. The man deserved the benefit of the doubt.

Rodney's throat bobbed in a nervous swallow. He lifted his chin in that way he did when putting on a brave face that wasn't fooling anyone. Funny how much alike and yet how totally different they were. When Rodney raised his head, he was gearing up his ego to combat his terror, going for smug to shove back his fear. When John lifted his head, he was steeling himself for the bad and unusual, but without hiding the fact that he was uncomfortable about it.

"Well," Rodney began, "I will admit that there was scientific intrigue about it all... for me,anyways. But you have to understand, you of all people, that we face the impossible everyday. Too many things that aren't supposed to happen, or shouldn't have happened, have happened. Us being still alive is the mother example of that. So when you told us that those... _scientists..." _he spat the word like it was lemon juice, crooking his figures into quotation marks, "had told you that you couldn't fly... It pissed me off. It pissed me off that a group of people with the knowledge to slap body parts together and rearrange DNA without killing the subject sewed wings on you just to be sewing wings on something, then told you that flying wouldn't happen... yes, it pissed me off like you wouldn't believe."

John leaned forward, listening with more intent.

Rodney stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket to keep them still. "I don't know why... actually I do know why but you might not like it. You don't leave an experiment incomplete. You see it through to the end, except, of course, for the ones that try to kill you. You don't abuse knowledge like that, and you don't... you just don't leave it. It's like breaking a promise. No, it's like... like... well, to me, for you, it was like you were starving and they set a bowl of food just beyond your reach. They gave you wings and you couldn't fly. My gosh, it's like they knew you, knew how to kick you just right so you never got up again. They gave you wings, and said you couldn't fly. And you always said that was one of your biggest fears, not being able to fly. It-it-it it was wrong, freakin' wrong, and it made me mad. I mean what if it had been us? What if they gave me limitless knowledge but put me in coma so I couldn't use it? Or restored Ronon's home world and family but said he couldn't go back? Took Teyla's people to a world the wraith could never touch except wouldn't let her go with them?"

John lifted his eyebrows pensively. "You put a lot of thought into this."

Rodney lifted his chin with a more legit self-satisfied expression. "Well, yes, thinking is what I do best. I've come to discover that I prefer it when people tell you what you _can_ do, not what you can't."

John nodded. "Yeah. Keeps you from settling for less."

"Exactly. It never hurts to try. So I thought, 'hey, let's try'."

John lifted the wings, spreading them wide, and looked up at them. "And it's been pretty fun so far."

"You know," Rodney said, sounding less awkward and more casual, "when we first found you, I think I was more shocked that the wings didn't have feathers than that you had wings at all."

Sheppard was sure Rodney was exaggerating. He would have been shocked by the wings, _then_ their lack of feathers. When John had dreamed of having wings as a child, they had been copper wings.

"Well," Rodney said. "Good-night." He then left, probably before Sheppard could interrogate him further. Except John had nothing left to ask. Rodney had been honest, but for once without being brutal about it. Anyone else would have tried to spare John's feeling and say it was all about him, that they were doing this for him, keeping only his needs in mind as though he were high-maintenance. Rodney confessed about giving into intrigue and yet still ended up sounding compassionate about it. Rodney McKay, lord of the anti-social dance, had unwittingly expressed understanding toward another human being.

John had to smile at that. He tucked his wings back against his body and crawled beneath the covers, thinking the lights off.

-----------------------

Today was the real moment of truth, because today Carson had reluctantly okayed him to do something that might be considered slightly dangerous. John felt like an idiot dressed in nothing but swim-trunks, knee pads, elbow pads, and a helmet, like a kid on summer vacation about to go skateboarding to the beach.

"To that balcony and back," Carson said. " If you feel yourself falter, try to steer toward the water."

John nodded, then moved to the edge of the pier. He flapped, pushed off, and circled wide to aim up toward the small balcony several long feet above the pier. Teyla there stood waiting to keep anyone from stepping out for a glimpse of the literal fly-boy. It became precarious the higher he climbed. The wind was stronger, the air currents cooler, and both combined buffeted against him, making his balance wobble and his heart jolt. The moment his fingers touched the railing, he gripped it like a life-preserver and hung on as he flapped to lift his body up then over to drop onto the floor. Teyla was by his side, helping him stand.

"That was wonderful, John!" she said, breathless and laughing.

John smiled back, breathless himself out of exertion and exhilaration. "Yeah. Kind of scary too. Rising's hard work. I have no idea how birds do it."

"They have a lifetime of practice. Do not worry, John. You will get the hang of it."

John nodded. He turned to the rail, leaning over it to let everyone below know that he had landed in one piece. It was a long ways down, very long, and yet John thought nothing of it as he might have once upon a time.

"Are you coming, John?"

Sheppard looked over his bare shoulder at Teyla standing by the open door. He grinned at her with a racing heart, light-headed with an onrush of adrenaline and an idea that Beckett would be pissed about.

"Meet you down there," he said. He flapped, hopping onto the railing, then pushed off before Teyla could protest. He spread the wings wide, holding them steady in a gentle glide out over the pier and water. Spiting gravity, riding the wind, coasting on the currents that seemed to hold his body, took his breath away. Flight was freedom whether in a chopper or with his very own set of wings. With the wings it was as though there were no limits to the flight, no need to land and refuel or make repairs. His body was his limit, and as long as he stayed in a glide, he could remain airborne for hours.

And he would have stayed airborne for hours, lost in what had once been only a child-hood daydream, but he was pretty sure Carson and the rest were probably, slightly, peeved at him right now.

The gentle glide ended up being a lot faster when he dove to land, sliding and tumbling across the pier when he missed his chance to drop into the water. He pushed himself up onto his elbows to see Rodney tossing his arms up into the air as he strode angrily toward him.

"What the hell!"

"Did we not bloody tell you not to be doing that, Colonel!" Beckett snapped alongside.

John chuckled, punch drug on adrenaline. "Yeah, but I couldn't resist. If it helps, coming down was a hell of a lot easier than going up."

Ronon, dripping wet, stopped in front of John with arms folded and lips quirked in a smirk. "So how was it?"

John dropped back, arms and wings sprawled, and heaved a contented sigh. "Best damn ride of my life." He then flipped onto his side, scrambling to his feet. "I wanna do it again!" He would have, too, if Carson hadn't snagged his arm at the last second and hauled him through the doors.

"I think that's enough for today lad. And mind you," he shook his finger at John. "They'll be no flying unless someone is present. You land like a drunk pelican and I'll not risk you breaking your neck."

John heard, and heeded, but for the most part his head was still in the clouds. He chuckled at that.

---------------------------

John tied off the last lace of the shirt, then bent to slip into his shoes when his door chimed.

"Come in."

He was a little surprised to see Beckett enter. He'd been expecting Rodney since constant scientific curiosity made him John's unofficial babysitter when it came to the flights. Sheppard straightened and smiled up at Beckett. "What's up, doc?"

Beckett's lack of a snappy response concerning Bugs Bunny quotes gave John cause to drop the smile. Taking in the doctor's tense stance, considerate expression, and the file tucked under one arm, John's heart started to pound.

"Seriously, doc, what's up?"

Carson pursed his lips. "Something that I've been meaning to tell you for a while now. I've procrastinated a wee bit longer than I should have, though no harm in doing so." He smiled contritely. "Not really, I hope." He then moved to sit beside John on the bed. "I've got some news. But whether it's bad or good is up to you."

John had a swiftly sinking feeling as to what this was about, but said nothing to let Carson confirm it.

"I've been keeping a sharp eye on the changes made to your body to accommodate the wings," Carson began. "DNA mostly. And I think I know why those scientists did what they did to you – though, mind you, this is pure speculation. Um..." he opened the file, about to go all cryptic on John with the medical jargon, looked up as though realizing something, then closed the file and sighed. "The DNA changes aren't permanent. In fact they're starting to fade, going back to your original DNA. Which means the changes to your skeletal structure will also go back to the way they were. Which means..."

"No more wings," John blurted.

Carson nodded. "Aye, no more wings. Without the proper bone structure, they'll only be attached by skin and muscle, which will put your back through hell, even damage it. I think the scientists who did this to you knew this and were trying to combat it, make the changes permanent, but couldn't so... well, you know."

Left him to die. Yes, John knew very well.

"They'll have to be removed," Beckett finally said.

John furrowed his brow. "And you didn't bring this up sooner because...?"

"Because I didn't want it affecting your decision on whether or not to get the wings to work. I'll admit to scientific intigue. And I thought it might be good for you in terms of mental health. Always helps a person's outlook when they have a goal to focus on. So I kept this little fact to myself. The problem is, it's winding down to crunch time and we need to be ready. It's a good bet it's going to be painful for you, but I believe by removing the wings before the changes occur it will make it less difficult on you."

"So how much time left before that happens?"

Carson opened the file and scanned it. "I've calculated three more days, so the sooner we start the better." He closed the file and looked up at John, apologetic, searching his face. " I'm sorry to have dumped this on you now, but I've given it all the time I could." He squinted. "You all right lad?"

John suddenly realized that his jaw was hanging open. He snapped it shut. "Uh... Um." _Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap._

It hit John, like a kick to the gut and blow by a wraith stunner combined, that he hadn't once, since becoming airborne, thought about removal of the wings. It had become a notion so far-flung into the future that it morphed more into a what-if than something that needed to be done.

At the same time, neither had John contemplated keeping the wings.

Now John didn't know what to think.

_Except I wasn't going to keep the damn things. This was just an experiment. We proved the bastard scientists wrong. There's no reason to keep them._

They were a humiliation, a curiosity, a freak show. The biology department would never leave him in peace. The SGC would want to run their own experiments. His life as he knew it would be forfeit for the sake of science.

But... no more flying.

John leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, closing his eyes. " Aw damn it."

Carson said nothing, just placed a comforting hand on his back.

---------------------------

John slipped to the nearest balcony at dusk just as the last inches of sun were sinking behind the horizon. He shed the robe and the ties to spread his wings that fought against the pull of the warm evening wind. Atlantis was lit up as cities were meant to be, yet softer, almost angelic. John flapped hopping onto the rail, then over the rail, catching the currents and riding them like waves. He let them carry him up, higher and higher, between where the air cooled but remained possible to breathe. John weaved in a glide back and forth with his head raised letting the wind push against his throat and tumble through the shirt across his chest and stomach. He breathed deep the higher altitude oxygen that bit his lungs.

Child-hood dream made manifest. He'd never felt this free, not in anything that he'd flown, strapped into a chair, boxed in by metal. John spread his arms, slicing through the wind, pushing back as he pushed forward, straining to keep them straight. He circled tight around the central spire, wing-tip brushing inches from the wall. He climbed even higher to where the air thinned and he had to take deeper breaths to stay conscious. Atlantis stretched before him and the ocean beyond. He was tempted to fly straight into the last veils of colored lights about to slip away with the vanished sun. He wanted to just fly.

Then his wings and his back began to ache. He angled around to come in at the nearest balcony, which happened to be the one belonging to the mess, and he was coming in fast. He flapped forward to slow himself and still shot in arrow-quick to land sliding, tumbling, and flipping across the floor into the commissary, knocking into tables and chairs before slamming to a halt against the wall.

The world spun and tilted around John. He was still able to recognize the face of a shocked Elizabeth standing over him with a tray in her hands. John shook his head clear and rolled, grimacing against new bruises, onto his feet. People were frozen to the spot, staring at him. John smiled self-consciously and lifted his arms and the wings.

"Well, now you've seen 'em," he said. He stood there for a moment, letting everyone get an eye-full, then took off at a run out of the mess before anyone had a chance to mentally regroup, snorting as he tried not to laugh.

--------------------------------

John was on his stomach, a mask over his face, monitor pads stuck to his chest, a needle in his hand, and medication buzzing through his veins. The wings were limp at his sides. He reached out with a lethargic hand to brush his fingers along the arm and membranes that were velvet soft and warm. He would have to say that he was suffering from a "don't know what you've got 'til it's gone" moment.

Yet neither could he say that he had taken the wings for granted. He hadn't. He'd used them to their fullest, gave them their intent, and metaphorically laughed in the hallucinated faces of his tormentors.

He had yet to decide if he would miss them.

Pondering was put on hold when the drugs did their thing, knocking him out cold to the rhythm of the heart monitor.

He awoke to aches and pains, then slid back into fevered dreams. Between which were moments of excruciating agony that caused him to squirm and whimper until a Scottish voice spoke soothing words and warmth spread through his veins. In his dreams, the scientists were everywhere one moment, then below him the next, shaking their fists at him, calling him a stupid man for doing what _they_ said was impossible. They were scientists, they knew better, he wasn't supposed to fly. John just laughed and spit on them.

Then they were holding him down and slicing through his skin around the wing joints.

It got Sheppard waking in a scream every time, back into a body that felt alien and misshapen to him, especially about the back. His shoulders hurt, chest, collarbones, spine, ribs, shoulder blades. Everywhere else was just a dull ache. Voices spoke softly to him, helping him ride out the moments of burning pain until Carson came with relief. On occasion, there was someone holding his hand.

Then he awoke to no pain, no voices, no lingering dreams, and a lot better clarity. Someone must have seen his eyes open or heard the change in the heart monitor. The next thing he knew, Carson strolled in to raise the head of the bed and slip an ice-chip into John's mouth.

"How're you feeling today, lad?" Carson asked, sounding chipper.

John went for a shrug and winced when muscles and tight skin pulled.

"Best try to lay still," Carson said as he checked over the machines. He whipped out his stethoscope for a one on one vitals check, heart first, then lungs. "You've got a lot of stitches and even more rather upset muscles and bones. Even that we bit of a DNA change was a doozy. You're going to be a mite sore for some time to come."

John cleared his throat. "How... long? Bad?"

"You've been in and out of it for about a week. We thought it best to keep you under as much as possible, but the pain was hard to monitor – kept popping in on you. Then you developed a fever. It was touch and go but you're on the mend now, and you're body is back to normal."

It was then John realized his back felt a pound or two lighter, as though someone had lifted a back-pack he hadn't known he'd been carrying. He looked down at himself, through the loose collar of the gown at a body back to being more bone than muscle. Not too bad, though. At least it wasn't emaciation.

He was surprised, and a little proud at the fact, that he hadn't freaked out about going under, about lying on his stomach on a table with an oxygen mask on his face. He didn't recall having had a single panic attack when he was awake enough over seeing Carson with a needle, or someone wearing a mask leaning over him. He attributed it to the little things, like being warm, knowing the faces looming over him, the voices that spoke kindly to him, and the scent of pine and rubbing alcohol rather than blood and formaldehyde. It was always the little things that made a difference. Plus being too out of it to really do anything about it.

All in all, at the very moment except for feeling tired and slightly achy in the joints, John felt pretty good. He was warm, safe, and being taken care of. There wasn't much more he could ask for.

Carson injected meds into the I.V. When the warmth spread deeper, John let himself drift back to sleep.

----------------------------------

John was still a little weak, still a little sore, just at the level where all he needed was some hot food and a nap. No I.V.s and no constant monitoring. John promised short of a blood oath to follow Carson's instructions to the letter once released to his quarters, and he did since he didn't have much energy to do anything else. He took meals in the mess hall when his team came to fetch him, and grinned each time he looked around to see that no one was even glancing his way.

The mess and the rec room were the extent of any traveling for John. He liked routine, but still got bored with it after a time. He needed a change in scene and his team had just the place.

They lounged back in the lawn chairs set out on the balcony, Teyla drinking a cup of tea, Ronon a can of Sprite (he was a practical addict of the stuff) McKay was eating a bowl of Jell-o and John had a glass of milk. He was dressed in a thick sweater and sweat pants, but still needed to be wrapped in a blanket. Not so much because of his weight, but because his body was still a little screwy and would forget how to distinguish hot from cold.

It didn't bother him as much as the itch about his shoulders and the need to twitch and stretch something that was no longer there. Phantom sensations, Beckett called them. They would eventually pass.

The group was silent in a comfortable way as they each contemplated the sun sinking behind the horizon and its trailing splash of colors fading into twilight.

"So," McKay said. "You miss 'em?" He grunted when Teyla elbowed him in the ribs.

John just smirked, amused. "Believe or not, I kind of do."

"You mean the flying."

"Definitely the flying. They weren't so bad once I started flying."

"So you regret their absence?" Teyla asked.

John pressed his lips into a straight line. "I'm not really sure. Right now, yeah, I kind of do. I want to fly and keep forgetting I can't anymore. I dream about flying a lot too. It's just one of those things that was nice while it lasted. But humans weren't meant to fly like that, or I probably would have been able to keep them."

"Would you have?" Ronon said. "If the DNA thing hadn't left, would you have kept them?"

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was the million dollar question he hadn't stopped asking himself. Con was that, in the name of science, he would have been subjected to stuff that would have given him nasty flashbacks to the facility. Pro was the flying, and that just about trumped the con, because he always imagined himself flying away from those wanting to do tests. Flying forever so they couldn't find him.

"I'll need to get back to you on that one," John said, though he doubted he would.

They fell silent again, still comfortable about it. Except for John. There was something he'd been meaning to say for a while. He cleared his throat, focusing on some inane spot on the floor rather than suffering an attempt to make eye contact.

"Um... I... I've been meaning to say to you guys..." he rubbed the back of his neck, "been wanting to say, actually, since I had time to think about it... I wanted to thank you," he cleared his throat again and shifted, "for helping with the flying thing and, well, convincing me to try the wings out in the first place. I don't think I would have otherwise and I'm glad I did. Really glad. Really, really glad. The kind of experience I wouldn't mind having again."

"So that's a definite no regret on getting the wings," Rodney said.

John grimaced. "I regret getting the wings, I don't regret that I had them," he looked up at his team. "Does that make sense?"

Teyla smiled. "It makes perfect sense."

"Just don't go jumping off any balconies in a moment of memory lapse or something," said Rodney.

"I'll stick with doing nose-dives in a puddle jumper."

"Not with me in it you won't."

John finished off the last of his milk, setting it on the ground so he could pull the blanket tighter. He burrowed deeper into the padded lawn chair provided by Rodney feeling generous, and smiled placidly. "There is one thing I know I regret," he said, his voice muffled by the blanket. "I never did figure out how to land."

The end

A/N: I'm pretty sure I spelled Salsbury steak wrong, but Spellchecker's a butt and won't help me correct it and dictionaries aren't all that useful. And though John likes football, I personally never saw him as actually having played it. Maybe in college, but he struck me more as a basketball guy, what with him being all tall and slender.


End file.
